


Grand Theft Backpack

by smolonde



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Based on a True Story, F/M, Short One Shot, fluffy fluff, just a crush forming, not actually romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5141867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolonde/pseuds/smolonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Egbert accidentally picks up the wrong backpack when he goes to his next class, but is he ready to meet the owner of the backpack?<br/>Based on something that happened to me sophomore year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grand Theft Backpack

Your name is John Egbert, you are a sophomore at your new high school, and you’ve just joined choir.

Your dad has insisted that your baritone voice is beautiful and has the capacity to make it into the school’s mixed choir. While you protested the idea, your father won you over with the promise of a new magic set and joke book. You grumbled about it for a few minutes, but the idea of Colonel Sassacre’s new prank book shining on your bookshelf convinced you otherwise. And now you’re standing in the choir room, flanked by tenors and altos, listening to your teacher yell about spinning your breath and feeling the space behind your molars.

When class ends, you don’t even look at any of your classmates as you grab your backpack, a black backpack with grey straps, and rush to the math wing so that your excitable teacher doesn’t get angry.

 

“Get your textbooks out, kids. We’re gonna do some math!” Your teacher, Ms. Megido, pumps her fists. You rummage in your bag to find your math book, but when you feel around for it, it’s not there. Instead, your hand grasps a leathery form, and you draw it out of the bag. It’s a leather-bound book, and when you open it, you see drawings of bizarre creatures. Tentacle-sporting forms float through the air, flitting around and touching other, smaller forms, seemingly caressing them with long, jet-black appendages. Your first thought is that you’ve stumbled upon some kind of messed-up hentai, but the thought flies from your head as you notice the cursive on the inside of the book. It’s messy, and you can’t read it, but two initials stand out on the page: R.L. While you don’t know what the initials stand for, you trace them over with your index finger, wondering what this book is doing in your backpack. Then your blood freezes in your veins at the realization; this is not your backpack.

In a panic, you realize that in your rush to leave the choir room, you must have grabbed a backpack similar to yours and left your own in the room. Your racing thoughts are interrupted by a door opening, and you whip your head towards the door.

“Hello, Ms. Megido, I’m sorry to bother you, but it would seem that a John Egbert is in possession of my backpack?”

The girl standing in the doorway is short, Asian, and slim, elfishly built. Her blonde hair, clearly dyed, frames her face, lilac lipstick starkly contrasting to her black skin. She holds your backpack over her shoulder, a purple-nailed hand tapping her thigh.

“I figured that this backpack was not mine, as its contents contain cartoonish drawings apparently idolizing Peter Venkman from Ghostbusters.” A smirk plays at the edge of her mouth as the rest of your class snickers quietly.

You raise your hand in shame. “Uh, that’s me.”

“Of course it is.” She walks over to you, putting her hand on your shoulder. You stare, momentarily stunned by her cool palm ghosting over your sleeve. She breaks you out of your haze by reaching for the journal in your hand.

“You seem to be interested in my drawings. I’d be happy to discuss them with you at another time, but I need to go to class. My name’s Rose Lalonde, by the way, remember it when you’d like to sit next to a friend in choir.”

And just like that, she’s gone, her backpack draped elegantly over her shoulders, purple skirt swishing as she sashays away. Your mouth is open, and the rest of your class is staring at you in confusion. Ms. Megido clears her throat, directs the class’s attention back to the board, and starts talking about the Pythagorean Theorem. Right now, your mind is far away from the concepts of A squared plus B squared equals C squared, instead choosing to mentally follow Rose Lalonde down the hallway, taking in the rest of her proud stance and figure.

You think you might have just fallen in love.

 

The rest of your day flies by, and you don’t snap out of your Rose-induced haze until your dad asks you what’s bothering you over dinner.

“Oh, it’s nothing, dad.” You stick your fork into your mashed potatoes, swirling the chicken’s lemony sauce into the white, cloudlike lumps.

“John, really, I’ve raised you since you were a baby. You may be my adopted son, but you’re still my flesh and blood, and I know when something’s up.”

You sigh; nothing can escape your father’s radar. Even though most adoptive parents are pretty good at taking care of children, your dad’s on a whole other level, even though he’s a single dad and has a full-time job. When he adopted you from Korea, he excelled at the dad job instantly: you have pictures of you as a four-year old, sitting on his lap at the piano, banging your tiny fists on the keys. Your dad smiles in the background, patiently grinning as if his piano wasn’t suffering abuse at tiny, cake-sticky hands. Another photo has you shoving your two-year-old face into a birthday cake, the blue-stained skin of your cheeks being pinched by gentle fingers. Your father loves you, and you love him, even though sometimes he can be unbearably observant.

“Okay, fine. I’m potentially interested in a girl whose backpack I accidentally took in choir. She’s an artist, apparently, and she draws sh—um, stuff that looks like it’s out of a Lovecraft book.” You’re surprised you even know who Lovecraft is, but you did some research after you went home because you were so interested in the weird pictures.

“Oh, is that all, son? Don’t worry about it, just be yourself around her.” He smiles encouragingly, as if “be yourself” didn’t entail being a giant movie buff nerd.

“That’s the problem, Dad. I’m not exactly boyfriend material, well, at least not to a girl like that. She’s elegant and classy and beautiful, and I’m a nerdy Ghostbusters fan. I don’t stand a chance.” You sigh, forking a piece of chicken into your mouth, masking your disappointment with a half-hearted smile.

“John. If a girl can’t recognize you for your qualities, that just means you aren’t right for each other. Not only that, but you can’t force your chances. If she doesn’t like you, she doesn’t. And you’ve barely spoken to her, so at least get to know her better.” He pats your arm from across the table.

“Thanks, dad. I’m gonna go to bed now.” You make for the stairs, but are stopped by your dad’s voice.

“John. I love you.”

You walk back over and hug your dad protectively. “I love you too, dad.”

When you lie down, your head on the pillow, Rose Lalonde’s face comes to your mind. She called you her friend and offered to let you sit next to her in choir. You smile into your pillow, deciding silently to take her up on that offer.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short fic, I know, but I'm writing through a block, plus I don't write much fluffy stuff so this is uncharted territory for me.  
> drop me a line at @transstrilondes on tumblr


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